


fiddlesticks

by makiyakinabe



Category: Original Work
Genre: Blushing, F/F, fluff?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-04-18 06:48:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4696199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makiyakinabe/pseuds/makiyakinabe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A scene from a<strike>n apprentice's</strike> niece's morning with her <strike>master</strike> aunt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	fiddlesticks

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EvilMuffins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvilMuffins/gifts).



There was once a girl named Imogen, who woke up one morning and was dismayed to find sunlight streaming through her window.

"Oh, fiddlesticks! " cried she. "Aunt Eulalia must've been up for ages by now!"

And out the bed she leapt, dashing across the floor with nary a thought for either the state of her hair or her bare, unsocked feet.

For Imogen was apprenticed to her Aunt Eulalia the Mage, and it was a rule unspoken yet known to all that apprentices ought not rise later than their masters _or _ be attended to by them, instead of the other way round. As it was customary for Aunt Eulalia to rise with the sun, thus Imogen strove to rise each day at dawn, putting the brass kettle on boil, taking a loaf of bread out of the bread bin and a fish out of the pantry so that, by the time her Aunt sat up on her bed yawning into a hand — and Leander uncurled silently from where he'd been sleeping tucked against her side, a spot of black against the cream floral quilt — Imogen was already standing in front of the door to their room, one hand holding onto a tray of fresh tea, lightly buttered toast and fish and the other, raised and poised to knock.

With another dismayed cry of "Oh, fiddlesticks!" at the sight of her room, brightened by daylight, Imogen flung the door wide open and dashed a couple more steps forward, only to stop in surprise.

For seated at the table, one hand holding a cup of steaming Assam and the other, moving letters and scrolls around saucer and teapot, arranging them from order of least importance to most, was her very Aunt.

(Leander, as always, was nowhere to be seen in between mealtimes.)   


"O-o-oh," stammered she. "A-aunt Eulalia!"

Her cheeks reddened as she suddenly became conscious of how tousled her blonde hair was and how loosely they fell about her shoulders, in contrast to her Aunt's dark hair, which was pulled into a bun at the nape of the neck and secured with a ribbon of violet silk, not one strand out of place.

Imogen lifted a hand, belatedly seeking to comb it smooth with her fingers.   


"I'm really sorry about my untidy appearance! And my tardiness! I was reviewing the list of spells you gave me on diminishment yesternight, and so focused was I trying to remember them by heart that I completely forgot the time and went to bed long past midnight —"

"Good morning to you, too, Imogen," said Aunt Eulalia, her voice as gentle as honey. She set her cup back in its saucer with nary a sound.

Imogen's cheeks reddened further, and she ducked her head in embarrassment.

For only then did she become aware of how she'd yet to give her greetings, and while aunts may generally be inclined to forgive such oversight after much apologizing, Aunt Eulalia was by no means an ordinary aunt. She was first of all one of the select few Mages who had performed a great service to the King — the specifics of which, unfortunately, her Aunt had yet to divulge, despite it being a full year into the apprenticeship, and of _course_ Imogen wasn't one to hazard a  _guess_  — were given the privilege of wearing violet, the color of Corallian royalty, in their hair.

"Morning, Aunt Eulalia," said she in a hushed voice.

"And you need not apologize for sleeping in. I can see you've worked very hard on your studies." A smile unfurled on her Aunt's face then, as slow as a morning glory coming into full bloom, but no less dazzling.

Imogen ducked her head even further, incredibly pleased though she was. So hotly were her cheeks burning, that she was certain the color her complexion was indistinguishable from that of a tomato.

"O-o-oh," stammered she. Suddenly remembering her manners, she hastily raise her head. "You're too kind, Aunt Eulalia. But I'm nowhere near remembering even half the diminishment spells! I'm awful at keeping all these different words in my head, let alone making them stick. As my Mother always said, 'If yeh got summat ter tell Im, yeh gotta put yer hands on her ears or 's gonna spill out o' 'em!'"   


"Oh, Imogen," said her Aunt sadly.

She swallowed, looked down at her hands and was rather unsurprised to find the both of them knotted in her nightdress.

"I-i-if you'll excuse me, Aunt Eualia," blurted she. "I must return to my room. My hair is in need of a good comb through and a gray ribbon, my feet in need of socks and shoes, and I myself a dress more suitable for work."

Her Aunt tilted her head in assent.

Just as she'd turned, and was about to make a dash for her room, her Aunt's softspoken "Hold on, Imogen," caused her to pause midstep and turn back.

"Before you go back to your room, won't you be so kind as to help me finish this pot of tea? It appears that I've brewed more than I can drink." And suddenly her Aunt was holding up the very pot, the sprout of which was steadily steaming and filling the air with the smell of Assam, and she was looking at Imogen inquiringly.

"O-o-oh," stammered she, blinking quickly. "Of course!" And towards the table she scampered, settled into the chair opposite her Aunt, and lifted her hand to once more to her hair.

"You need not think so little of yourself," said her Aunt, as she summoned Imogen's cup and saucer from the kitchen cupboard with a spell Imogen had yet to learn, and Imogen herself set about trying to comb her hair smooth with her fingers. "You're doing very well presently. You've done all your spells successfully — a feat Evie would have given an arm and a leg to be able to accomplish, back in the day — you've been such a great help to Leander and I, and you're growing into a wonderful woman — oh, you need not shake your head, dear Imogen, you  _are_. In fact, you look lovely, comb or no comb. "   


Imogen ducked her head once more, and she lowered her hand, so that she could lace her fingers together. So hotly was her skin burning, from the crown of her head to the soles of her feet, that it was a miracle she hadn't burned clean through the floor of the cottage and disappeared from her Aunt's sight.

And yet Imogen could not deny how pleased she was at the same time, how each praise that came from her Aunt's lips had her feeling as though she was walking on air.


End file.
